


Aeternum Vale

by Deejaymil



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-20 10:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deejaymil/pseuds/Deejaymil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <strong> This fic is on permanent hiatus until it can be rewritten. </strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Robin in a Cage

A Robin Redbreast in a cage  
Puts all Heaven in a Rage.  
~William Blake,  _Auguries of Innocence_

_**European Robin**  ( _Erithacus rubecula_ ) - Rebirth of ideas and spirit: of new beginnings._

* * *

                He knew he was dreaming because although he could see his fellow soldiers dying around him, dropping one after the other as gunfire ripped through their group, he stood untouched in the centre, feet planted in the sand and gun gripped tightly in his hands. He knew it was a dream because although the sun glared harshly into his eyes, hiding the enemy behind its glare, he couldn’t feel the blistering heat that he remembered. Although he could see the dirt kicked up by running feet and stray bullets, fancied he could almost taste the grit drying his mouth and throat to a parched expense, he couldn’t feel the burn of the sun-warmed earth beneath his boots.

                He knew that the blood he could smell was memory only, that he wasn’t really back in the war, but as he stumbled back, trying to reach cover, the knowledge seemed distant, unimportant. He swung his gun up, aimed, shook sweat out of his eyes, and carefully spotted his target.

                He felt the warmth of the metal in his hands, as it almost moved itself, aimed itself even though he was blinded by the sun, and fired, again and again. Every shot was accompanied by a cry or someone falling. Shooting blindly, he moved swiftly through the hordes of dying men, shooting over and over and hitting his target every time. A fierce, gleeful tremor of satisfaction ran through him with every shot, even as he felt their shock and pain shiver across his skin. Warring abilities of death and healing, never meaning to coexist.

                Just as he took aim once more at a man who had two of his companions in his sight, he felt someone slam into him, knocking him to the ground and his gun out of hands. As soon as the gun left his fingers, he felt a hollow emptiness fill him, as though he’d lost something important. He hit the ground and retched, struggling to face the one who’d struck him.

                He turned and it was his father, smiling smugly at him, gun held in large, steady hands that he knew well, hands that knew as well as his own how to both hurt and heal. Words escaped him, and he stared numbly at his old man who laughed, and squeezed the trigger.

                Remembering the wave of shock that radiated through his shoulder along with the bullet was never easy, the way he’d been tossed into the dirt, not so much as by the impact, but by the pain, screaming. Remembering lying, dying, surrounded by those he served with, but more alone than ever, bleeding out into the dirt. Thinking to himself that the red cross on his arm hadn’t even helped in the end, he would die out here along with his patients.

                Worst of all, was the tearing agony in his soul as it split in two, the bullet ripping through muscle and bone, shadowed by the way it had torn his Guardian away from him.

                He reached for his gun, held it loosely in his hand as he began to lose consciousness, but its comforting warmth was no longer there, now just a cold hunk of murderous metal. And he had never been as alone as he had been that day.

                As alone as he was still.

 

* * *

 

                John Watson jerked awake, pain slicing through his shoulder, heart thumping dully. He lay in his bed, panting, before slowly sitting, looking about warily.

                The dream was a constant reminder of what he’d lost, as though he needed reminding. The ache was less today, but still there, a numbing emptiness echoed by his surroundings.

                He glanced around at the sparse flat he’d lived in since his discharge, clean and free of anything personal. He hated the empty white walls, the sharp lines, and coldness of the apartment, even as he felt it accurately summed up who he was these days.

                Most of all, he hated the cane, taunting him from its place propped against the desk. Hated how it mocked him with his own disability. Hated the reliance on it, when he’d never relied on anything before.

                He shook the last vestiges of the dream away, standing stiffly and limping to the desk. Dawn was beginning to creep through his curtains; he’d spent the whole night tossing and turning. The exhaustion was nothing new, he knew what he’d see if he glanced in the mirror. An old and broken man, a doctor who killed, and a soldier who limped. Eyes haunted and hollowed by permanent purple shadows, face lined with the sins of his past.

                Sliding the drawer open, he reached for his laptop, hand slowing over the butt of his handgun, lying where he’d shoved it months ago upon moving in. He couldn’t bear the feel of it anymore, the coldness of the metal where before touching it had been like the touch of a friend’s hand, familiar and welcoming. He remembered the days when the gun had truly been an extension of himself, filled with a fragment of his splintered soul, fierce and brave.

                The gun was a mockery of himself that he’d caused. Its inanimateness, more than the empty flat or the limp, spoke of the man John Watson had become, nothing more than a shade of what he’d once been. Dim, cold metal, where once there had been vibrancy and life.

                John grabbed his laptop and slammed the drawer shut, hiding the gun from view. He opened it and stared at the blank space, waited in vain for the words to come.

 

* * *

 

                “How’s your blog going?” she asks him cheerily. He thinks for a moment about telling her he knows she’s faking the concern, but he can’t quite find the energy to say the words.

                “Yeah, good,” he says, his smile brittle. He coughs slightly, shifting. He could block her emotions, or he used to be able to. It’s a lot harder now that most of his energy seems devoted to simply getting up every morning. He settles for ignoring the itch or boredom and sympathy he can feel radiating off her. “Very good.”

                “You haven’t written a word, have you?” The boredom shifts, the itch becoming a pinch of frustration, and John sinks slightly, trying to shield against it. It’s harder without another source to draw power from, his own well is decidedly low. He watches her scribble on her pad, and frowns.

                “You just wrote, ‘still has trust issues’,” he says, and she looks at him, startled. He knows she’d read the blog, he can taste it when she lies. As annoying as his empathy skills are, they can also be decidedly useful. The ability he’d been born with, his one true skill. The only skill he still hid from everyone.

                And besides, he wouldn’t even need to be an Empath to know she planned to read every word he wrote. He was hardly forthcoming in their meetings. She wasn’t a very good therapist, he mused. But he gave her points for effort.

                “And you read my writing upside-down.” He hadn’t. But she didn’t need to know that. “You see what I mean. John, you’re a soldier. And it’s going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life and... what you’ve lost. Writing a blog, everything that happens to you, will honestly help you.”

                She thinks that if he’s patient, a new Guardian would make itself known to him eventually. He knows her attitude towards his position well. She won’t believe he’s Wingless because she looks at him and sees a still functional man.

                He looks at himself and sees someone waiting for the end.

                John sits rigid in the chair, staring disbelievingly at her. He knew as well as anyone that there were only so many chances you got, so many Angels allotted to you. And his fierce protector of the war, he’d been John’s third.

                Most people didn’t even get a third. He knew he should count himself ridiculously lucky to have had that chance, but mostly he just felt heartsore. It wasn’t like a physical pain, this space where his Angel should be. It was a constant hollow in his chest, the echoes of his heartbeats endlessly trapped within, demanding he rectify this wrongness, as they rebounded and grew in the emptiness.

                Incredibly, she was still talking. “Until you let your old Guardian go, the new one hasn’t got space to grow and form.”

                John rather felt there was more than enough space, with the holes his former Guardians had left in his soul.

                He knew that the words she was chattering were empty words. His files she had spread in front of her had almost everything about him in there, his childhood, his alcoholic father, his Guardians so far, but in the space left aside for magical talents, it had been left blank.

                His first Angel had urged him silently to keep his empathy a secret, and he’d done so. It had been weak enough back then that his Father’s murderous rages had only been a discomfort, his Mother’s grief easily brushed aside and that people he didn’t know were quiet and blank to him.

                His second Angel had strengthened his talent, grown and shaped it.  Her power had amplified his. She had taught him how to taste emotions in the air, how to tell them apart from the sensations on his skin, to look at people out of the corner of his eye and see the pale flashes of their Angels beside them. A Healing and Helping Guardian, the most esteemed of the five Guardian classes. She had taught him to use his empathy to mend what was broken, to put together not only shattered bodies, but the scars on people’s minds as well.

                Empath skills were firmly in the Communication and Mindsight class, and it was a class viewed mostly with suspicion and distrust. Much better to be known as a Healer and Helper.

                He’d never seen an Angel clearly, only vague shapes and colours, and he could only imagine what form his own had taken. But he could feel the way his therapist’s emotions bounced off of her Angel, pity and slight boredom, with a hint of disgust at the possibility he was severed completely.

                Those without Angels didn’t last long. Sunderings, the loss of a former Angel to make way for a new one, were a natural fact of life. The Guardian passed on, leaving a trace of taught abilities behind, a patchwork of skills unique to every person. But sometimes the Sundering was more permanent, more a Severing, and those were the broken, the hopeless, the mad.

                If he was Severed, he wasn’t fit company, and John could feel the way her disgust tainted the rest of her emotions with a sickly taste, like bile in the back of his throat. It made his skin feel oily, and he fought the desire to wipe his hands clean.

                He forced himself to look her in the eye as she continued to chatter about adjusting to civilian life, already deciding that his first adaption would be never to return to therapy. “Nothing happens to me.”

 

* * *

 

**OCTOBER 12 TH**

                His Angel screamed, pain lancing through him as the Beast threw it to the floor.

                The hand holding the pill shook as he felt the claws of the Beast rake along his Guardian, a touch he’d never experienced. The pain felt distant, numbed.

                The screams faded to a hum in the background as he raised the pill to his lips, light from the windows glittering, deaf to the agonised howls of his Protector.

                The pill touched his lips.

                Swallow.

                Pain. Crumpled to the floor.

                His Angel went first, a shower of gold visible only to him.

                His turn.

 

* * *

 

  **NOVEMBER 26 TH**

                Two boys sprinting up the street, laughing in the rain. Invisible to them, their Angels bounded behind, hounds with backs strangely humped from mantled wings, snapping playfully at one another.

                One runs back, leaving a friend willing to share an umbrella.

                Everything to live for.

                Before he dies, the boy thinks he can hear the frantic barking of a dog struggling to reach its owner.

 

* * *

 

**JANUARY 27 TH**

                He watches impassively as she sobs and fights. She’s taken the longest to subdue out of all of them, but it’s easy eventually. Her Angel is old, slow. Soft from a life of ease, ill-suited to protection. Worthless.

                It’s not worth it in the end, the fight. They all struggle, they all cry, they all wail. And then, they all die.

                Once his Beast has hers pinned, it’s all over.

                He doesn’t think this will ever lose its fun. He smiles as she slips the pill into her mouth, and the old Guardian dissolves into a shower of sparks.

 

* * *

 

  **The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London.**

 

                He hates this. Hates the flashing cameras, the barked questions, the insatiable curiosity of the press. The callousness of it all, bottling a senseless death down into easily digested headlines.

                Most of all, he hates being surrounded by so many people, not the easy good/bad kinds he’s used to, but the overwhelming press of grey and grey moralities round him.

                He scans the crowd of reporters, trying to block his power from use. Even blocked, stuff filters through. He glances at a person, and in a moment, can sense their intentions.

                It’s weak, and depends on his own assumptions about a person. But in a crowd like this, next to useless, bombarded with intentions and guilt and perversions.

                It’s not like what... he... does. Not at all. Greg’s is a parlour trick, a little magic he can call up when needed. What he does, that’s truly useful. At best, Greg’s can tell him if someone is evil or good, and there’s plenty of middle ground that doesn’t cover.

                His eyes flicker round the crowd, shutting out Sally’s voice, intoning about the apparent suicides (and aren’t they a puzzle?), trying to separate one person from another. He knows how out of place he looks in front of a crowd, awkward and fidgety. He can feel his Guardian, warm against his chest, curled round his warrant card in his breast pocket. His decoy ID is at his hip, after an unpleasant experience with an acquaintance attempting to steal the ID his Guardian perches on, he’d worn two as a precaution. It gives him some comfort, even though he knows it’s probably snoozing in there. The only time it ever truly feels awake and alive these days is when he’s on a case, keen-eyed and hungry.

                “Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now.”

                His name snaps him back to attention. The drone of chatter becomes a violent buzz, aimed at him. Time to bark for the crowd, then.

                “Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?” A man with long hair, essentially an honest man, but there’s a smoky wisp round him. A hint of deception in his past, lies that scarred him. A promise of betrayal in his future.

                The work of a moment, to see this and push it away. Eyes averted, to avoid seeing all the poor man’s dirty laundry. “Well, they all took the same poison,” he says, professional, cool. “They were all found in places they had no reason to be.” Glancing up, his eyes meet a man’s in the crowd, a flicker of violence.  The bad always overshadowed the good, a kind word to a workmate, money donated to a cause.

                The worst thing about his power, the inability to act on any of the information he gains from it. So that man may have stuck his wife as some point in the past, it could be twenty years ago now, or simply the day before. Perhaps even a week from now, it was often impossible to tell the future from the past. Useless, vague. He looks down again, pretending to glance at his notes. “None of them had shown any prior indication-“

                “But you can’t have serial suicides.”

                Lestrade frowns, irritated with the interruption. “Well, apparently you can.” Sally kicks him under the desk, shaking her head slightly. She knows him, knows how much the press bother him. Vultures. He avoids smiling, unwilling to goad her.

                The man from before, who may or may not have struck his wife at some point. “These three people, there’s nothing that links them?”

                “There’s no link we’ve found yet.” Carefully chosen words. “But, we’re looking for it – there has to be one.”

                The room suddenly fills with the buzz and chime of dozens of ringtones, his and Sally’s included. Startled glance at his phone, and suddenly he can feel his Guardian, awake and humming with excitement, the taste of the chase already in his mouth. Outwardly, his facial expression doesn’t change.

                **Wrong!**

                He can hear Sally trying to calm the crowd, the reporters’ questioning the text, and he sighs slightly. She’s going to be unbearable to work with now that _he_ ’s shown an interest, and isn’t it about time.

                “If they’re suicides, what are you investigating?”

                Him again. “As I say, these suicides are clearly linked. It’s an unusual situation. We’ve got our best people investigating.”

                The chatter of phones again, and how does he do that? Lestrade allows himself to feel mildly impressed, although he schools his expression into one of slight frustration. Wouldn’t do to let Sally see him smile at... well, these antics.

                **Wrong!**

                “Is there any chance that these are murders?” A woman this time, and Lestrade carefully blocks any of her from slipping through his shield. Now that his Angel is awake and buzzing, it’s easier to use his strength as a shield. “And if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?”

                Damn. Those two words no copper likes to hear. The two words that mean late nights with no sleep, bad coffee, and mass hysteria. Choosing words carefully again, Sally silent at his side, fuming over the texts. “I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The poison was clearly self-administered. “

                “Yes, but if they _are_ murders, how do people keep themselves safe?”

                His patience slips away, with a thrum of anger from his Angel. “Well, don’t commit suicide,” he snaps, silencing her. They were wasting time here, they could be out tracking _real_ criminals, doing real police work! Not throwing bones to this mob of hounds.

                A mutter from Sally reminding him of their tenuous position in the eyes of the public. Damage control. “Obviously, this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be.”

                A third time. **Wrong!**

This time his is different. He eyes it cautiously, an air of resignation. **You know where to find me. SH**

He tries to hide the excitement from Sally as he thanks them drily and leaps up, shoving his phone into his pocket as he goes.

                Sally chased him. “You’ve got to stop him doing that, he’s making us look like idiots.” Sally is a good copper, loyal and firm, and he doesn’t need his gift to tell him that. But she needs to get off his case about their... agreement.

                “If you can tell me _how_ he does it, I’ll stop him.” A lie. They need him.

                And they’re not the only ones, he thinks, a silent agreement hummed from his pocket.

 

* * *

 

                John limps along the pathway, savouring the brisk, clear weather. The limp makes walking almost unbearable, but he refuses to allow it to restrict the things he used to enjoy. Doggedly, he continues with single-minded stubbornness.

                He almost walks straight past the man on the bench, intent on his task. “John! John Watson!” Startled, he swings round, leaning heavily on the cane, ache in his leg intense.

                “Stamford, Mike Stamford!” the man introduced, gesturing to himself. “We were at Barts together.” And yes, he does recognise him. John feels a rare smile on his face as he steps forward to greet his old friend.

                “Yes, sorry, yes. Mike. Hello.” The smile is slightly forced, and even this much social contact seems strange, alien to him. He shakes hands gingerly, feeling the genuine joy from Mike tingling warmly in his palm. Not unpleasant, much better than the oily disdain of his therapist.

                Mike laughs, only slightly put off by his tightly wound demeanour. “Yeah, I know, I got fat.”

                John almost laughs. “No, no.” Trails off, uncertain. It’s harder to think, to chat calmly, when it feels as though half of him is absent. Unsure of things suddenly, everything is slightly off kilter.

                “I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?”

                The question is genuine, and Mike is a quietly humming pool of calm emotions, keeping John grounded. He falters, glares at the man probably sharper than what he’d intended. Obvious, really. He twitches the cane, the other man’s eyes flicker to it. “I got shot.” Simple.

                Mike blinks and John relents. Maybe he can relearn this, living without his Guardian guiding him. “Coffee?” he offers. Ten minutes later, he was blessing the park bench they’d found, and the hot, bitter liquid they were sipping.

                It’s like relearning a disused skill, talking to people. He keeps it light, far away from the war. Trained on Mike. “Are you still at Barts, then?”

                Mike chuckles. ”Teaching now, yeah. Bright young things, like we used to be.” John could remember that far back, but it felt like a different life. Calmer and cleaner. “God, I hate them.”

                During the time of his Healing and Helping Guardian. Learning to rebuild people’s souls.

                If only he could put together his own, if he could remember how.

                Dangerously, the conversation turns back to him. “What about you? Just staying in town, till you get yourself sorted?”

                Brisk replies. “I can’t afford London on an Army pension.”

                “You couldn’t bear to be anywhere else.” Mike glances at him, and John suddenly remembers how keen the Stamford of old had been. A mix of Healing and Helping with Sight, if he remembered correctly. A dangerously useful combination. “That’s not the John Watson I know.” John can feel the calm contentment from Mike shift suddenly, and there’s that concern that has his skin itching so much lately.

                He’s sick of feeling everyone’s pity, feeling it crawling all over him like unwelcome spiders. “Yeah, I’m _not_ the John Watson...” he stops, ashamed. He hadn’t meant to snap. A twinge of pain in his leg.

                Mike is clearly trying to choose words carefully. John stifles the desire to throttle his well-meaning old friend. “Couldn’t Harry help?”

                John snorts. Doesn’t dwell on that thought for long. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.”

                “I don’t know, get a flat share or something?”

                A second laugh, more bitter than the first. “Come on, who’d want me for a flatmate?”

                And suddenly, the pity is gone, replaced by a mischievous chuckle and wicked spike of excitement from Mike that has John twitching. The last time he’d felt that particular brand of emotion, they’d ended up half-naked and sprinting drunk through the college dorms. “What?” he asks nervously.

                “You’re the second person to say that to me today.”

                “Who was the first?”

 

* * *

 

                Molly watches as he unzips the bag, and inspects the cadaver. As carefully controlled as her face is, she can’t help but feel the barely contained glee bounding round the room from her overexcited Guardian. Molly tries to avoid glancing at the ferret weaving round the floor, dancing with his tail waving. Not many people are able to see their Guardian’s physical forms, and the few times she’d been caught out watching him, people had reacted unfavourably.

                It was just best hidden, was all.

                As was the smile that kept threatening to break out as she watched the handsome man leaning over the body. Her heart thumped in her chest, as she paced about nervously. He was completely engrossed in the cadaver, which was fortunate, as her hapless Angel had chosen to skip merrily round his feet, chattering cheerfully. He was as drawn to Sherlock as she was, she supposed. It made sense, he was a part of her.

                Of course, he could just be excited about the body. Her Guardian took as much happiness out of a good autopsy as Sherlock took out of his cases, and she tried carefully not to think about what that reflected about her. The cadavers were interesting, that was all, all whispered secrets and the unfolding of everything people kept hidden.

                “How fresh?”

                She leapt to answer him, in case he thought she’d been ignoring him. Or worse, staring at him like a lovestruck puppy. “Just in. 67, natural causes. Used to work here. I knew him, he was nice.” She moved closer, ignoring the whispering coming from the body bag. _Smoked when I was young, should have quit then, shouldn’t have started, spots on the lungs, wear on my right foot, I always did favour it, can you see? Can you hear? Made dancing difficult. I always did love to dance..._

                Sherlock zipped up the bag with a flourish, shutting the whisper off, and gave a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but she melted a little anyway. “Fine.” He looked at her, pale eyes gleaming. “We’ll start with the riding crop.”

                She doesn’t even hold back the flinches as he set unto the body with abandon. It wouldn’t hurt the cadaver; there were only traces of him left in there. He’d stopped feeling when his heart had stopped.

                 Sometimes it was best not to overthink the things Sherlock did, or really, to think about them at all... Such a strange, wonderful man. Her Guardian, settled on the table, danced about, egging the Detective on with ferret cries.

                It was also probably best not to overthink how terribly bloodthirsty her Angel could be. She cautiously approaches him, tries a joke. “So, bad day was it?”

                He doesn’t even look at her and she knows her face is probably frozen in a caricature of a smile. “I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man’s alibi depends on it. Text me.”

                She knows it’s silly, knows it will end exactly how the last twenty times have ended. After all, he only smiles at her to get what he wants, and it never reaches his eyes, but she’s far gone enough to recognise that it doesn’t matter. “Listen, I was wondering. Maybe later, when you’re finished...”

                He looks up at her and his eyes narrow. She pauses, waiting for the cutting words, and her Guardian hisses slightly. “You’re wearing lipstick. You weren’t wearing lipstick before.”

                Stunned. “I, er... refreshed it a bit.” Tries not to hope.

                He eyes her with the air of one hunted. “Sorry, you were saying?”

                No regrets. “I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee.”

                That half smile again. “Black, two sugars, please. I’ll be upstairs.” And he’s gone, leaving her stunned. Her Guardian chirps, eyeing the swinging door, and she scoops him up.

                “That could have gone better,” she whispers to the ferret, running a finger down his warm back. Black eyes meet hers, and she feels a soft rush of love and _happy_ from him.

                It could be worse. She could be Severed.

                She wonders what Sherlock’s Angel looks like.

 

* * *

 

                 Whatever John had been expecting, it hadn’t quite encompassed the man standing in front of him. Tall, smartly dressed, and with a riot of dark curls, and ice blue pale eyes that cut straight through him, John felt his back straightening into a defensive army posture just at the sight of him. The man stands over a table filled with chemistry gear, staring back at them.

                John realised he was staring, and glanced about. “Bit different from my day.” The place had certainly changed.

                Mike chuckled. “Oh, you’ve no idea.” The older man’s eyes hadn’t moved from the tall man, who had turned back to his experiment.

                A deep, low voice cut in. “Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.” John started, and glanced again at the man. His eyes were intent on the desk.

                Mike stepped forward. “And what’s wrong with the landline?”

                “I prefer to text.”

                Mike waved his arm vaguely. “Sorry, it’s in my coat.”

                John watched as the man’s face flickered with... _something_ , and he realised abruptly that there was no undercurrent of emotions running off of the strange man, like there was off Mike. Like there was off everyone John had ever met.

                A spark of curiosity lit, John took several steps towards him, reaching his hand into his pocket. Any excuse to get closer, to see if he could sense, something, anything. “Er, here... use mine.”

                The man looked startled. “Oh. Thank you.” Blue eyes scanned him again, flickered to Mike, and back again.

                Mike introduced them as the man took the phone from John’s outstretched palm. “This is an old friend of mine, John Watson.” He moved with an odd grace, gliding towards him almost, long fingers elegant. John shifted slightly as his finger’s brushed the phone, a slight amount of skin contact was all it had ever taken for his powers to kick in before. And... there it was.

                It was something, but before John could even begin to puzzle it out, it was gone. Discomforted, he stood next to the man who, to his senses, wasn’t there, and blinked rapidly a few times. This was either the queerest or greatest sensation ever, not having someone else’s emotions cluttering his.

                Thankfully, his power only ever seems to focus on one person at a time. And with it keenly focussed on the empty void that was this new person, Mike’s constant flow of calm had been shut off.

                For the first time in a very long time, John’s emotions were completely his own.

                He didn’t get time to savour the feeling. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” spoke the smooth voice.

                Mike was grinning, as John blinked again and then stared at the man. “Sorry?”

                “Which was it, in Afghanistan or Iraq?”

                “Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you....?”

                John was interrupted by the door swinging open and a young woman entering. As soon as she moved towards John and the man, John felt her emotions slam him, a maelstrom of sensation.

                Nervousness, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end; fierce, unrequited love, his heart hammered along in sympathy; and a slight edge of... pain. Pain caused by the dark-haired man, although it hadn’t deadened her feelings at all. After the few moments of peace he’d had, John flinched and shifted away from her, pushing it all behind his weakened barriers, wishing for the impenetrable ones of old.

                The man smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, and John thought that, along with the lack of feeling, he had never seen anything so cold. “Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you.” He took the cup from her, she shyly bowed her head. “What happened to the lipstick?”

                John slipped his phone back in his pocket as she answered, voice soft and gentle. “It wasn’t working for me.”

                “Really?” replied the stranger. “I thought it was a big improvement. You’re mouth’s too... small now.”

                And there it was again. The flare of pain. John flinched along with her, in sympathy. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flicker on the floor, like a small creature scuttling along the tiles, but at a quick glance, it was gone.

                The girl’s, Molly’s, Angel, he thought? Figures it would be something small and docile. “OK,” she whispered, slinking out, head low.

                John watched her go, somewhat gratified that there was someone just as miserable as him in the world, and slightly jealous of her still-living Angel. He realised abruptly he was being spoken to and snapped back to attention.

                “I’m sorry, what?” he asked, not at all sorry.

                “I play the violin when I’m thinking and sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

                John stared at him, nonplussed. “You told him about me?” he asked Mike, wondering frantically, _when_? They’d been together the whole afternoon, there simply wasn’t time...

                Mike shook his head. “Not a word.”

                “Then who said anything about flatmates?”

                The man turned his back on them, rummaging about. “I did. Told Mike this morning I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for.” He pulled his coat on, over the tailored suit he wore. John flinched at the coat, it was clearly expensive. “Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t a difficult leap.”

                John met those pale eyes unflinchingly when the man turned back to face him, tying a scarf round his neck. Keeping his voice calm, he asked, “How did you know about Afghanistan?”

                The man ignored him. “Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together, we ought to be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o’clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

                John realised at some point his mouth had dropped open and he closed it, with a snap as the man swept past him. “Is that it?” he barked, turning to face the man again.

                “Is that what?” The man stepped away from the door, and paced back towards him, eyes narrowed. John didn’t allow his face to flicker, but the emotionless void his powers kept reaching into made his stomach turn.

                “We’ve only just met and we’re going to go and look at a flat?” He wanted to be sure he had this correct. What was Mike playing at?

                “Problem?” That smile again, not reaching the eyes. John glanced at Mike and was slightly heartened to see him still smiling, still calm.

                John shook his head in disbelief. “We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting. I don’t even know your name.”

                Suddenly those eyes were on him again and it was different this time, he was being unravelled from a look, and he wanted to slam his shields up and run from the scrutiny. “I know you’re an Army Doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. You’ve got a brother who’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him, possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic, quite correctly, I’m afraid. Probably left over from the strain of losing your Guardian in traumatic circumstances. A Sight and Senses class, if I’m correct, which I often am, and not your second. Third, at least. Your second was a Healing and Helping class, an odd but not improbable combination.” He paused, thankfully, since John was pretty sure he hadn’t taken a breath the entire time. They stared at each other, one face blank, the other slack with shock. “That’s quite enough to be going on with, don’t you think?”

                He swept out the door, leaving a stunned silence in his wake, then spun back dramatically. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street.” A cheeky grin that actually met his eyes this time, lighting his face wickedly as he winked, to John’s disquiet. “Afternoon.”

                John stared at the door, and then Mike, who laughed and shrugged nonchalantly. “He’s always like that.”

                John nodded. “Right.”

                He quite wished he knew what he was getting himself into.

 

* * *

 


	2. Rooster in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a big shout out to my wonderful beta, Shortlockholmes.

A rooster crows only when it sees the light. Put him in the dark and he'll never crow.  
~Muhammad Ali

**Rooster** ( _Gallus gallus_ ) -  _Pride, braggart. Impending Danger._

* * *

 

                If possible, his flat seemed even emptier after meeting Sherlock Holmes.

                John sat stiffly on the bed, staring blankly at the wall, perplexed. He would be mad to take up the man’s offer of a flatshare, utterly mad. Even so, something in him buzzed with anticipation, some instinct felt as though it was driving him towards Baker Street.

                Snorting with disgust at his fancies, he tossed his phone and cane down, and slumped onto the bed, trying to ignore the nagging desire to get up and go meet the curious man from Barts.

                Something was different, he thought to himself, staring at the ceiling. Something had changed in that room, something important. He felt it in his chest, a shift within himself, like something had thrummed to life at the exact moment those pale eyes met his.

                The realisation hit him with the force of a train, and he sat bolt upright, breath tearing from him in a ragged gasp, shaking with shock.

                His Guardian. He felt his Guardian.

                Breathing deeply to try and calm himself, he closed his eyes and reached within himself, feeling along the humming edges of his Gift for the familiar twist that showed where the Guardian’s powers met his.

                He almost missed it, it was so slight. Instead of the raging spiral of power that his last Angel had given him, it was a mere trickle, like running his finger over a stray thread on his jumper. For a moment he sat motionless, brushing against the weak stream, trying to fight back the sick feeling of disappointment rising in his throat.

                He had almost hoped it was his old friend back, just for a moment...

                Opening his eyes, he glanced about, trying to look without looking, for a quick flash that signified the presence of Guardians. Looking at the desk, his closed laptop, he saw a light in the corner of his eye, flashing on the floor.

                Head snapping towards it, he made a frustrated sound in his throat, the screen of his abandoned phone brightly lit. Bending, he scooped it up, dimly registering that he hadn’t heard it go off.

                The phone’s screen was open to his sent folder, a single message highlighted as though someone had scrolled along to it, about to open it. John held the phone loosely, eyes narrowed, thinking for a long moment before pressing open with steady fingers.

                **If brother has green ladder, arrest brother. SH**

                There it was again, that unfamiliar buzz of excitement. Just who exactly was this man, this Holmes?

                He limped to his laptop and opened it, pulling up a search engine and watching the blinking cursor, with hesitation.

                He was at a turning point, he knew. Dancing on the knife’s edge, so to speak.

                Somehow, he knew his life was never going to be the same again. He rested his hands on the keyboard and began to type, fingers pecking at the keys.

                **Sherlock Holmes**

* * *

 

                Residents near the abandoned house at Brixton would later tell the police about the blood-curdling snarls coming from the house, prior to the discovery of the body.

                One little boy could have told them, if asked, about how when the snarls began, every Guardian in the street had reared up, wrapping their charges in wings of frantic protection, fear and power blazing round them. He could have told them how the air had suddenly tasted of Death, and how slow ripples of Skill had thrummed from the house.

                Although such questions were discouraged, he had asked his mother about Guardians, and whether or not they could be evil. His mother had laughed and told him that Guardians only existed to protect, that they could never be evil because they weren’t people with thoughts of their own.

                He had thought uneasily of the huge bear-like Guardian he had watched pace the street, wings a matted black, and folded awkwardly against a humped back. The bear’s claws, curved and each as long as his hand, had made audible scrapes against the pavement, that set his teeth on edge. He didn’t need his Angel’s silent urging to go inside and hide from the beast, and it had been shortly after that the snarls had begun.

                He thought to himself that perhaps if there was Angels, maybe there were Demons as well.

                He would have told them all this, described the monstrous Guardian and the man who it followed, a pale shadow next to the creature, even though no one believed that people could really _see_ Guardians.  But no one asked him, and out of everyone on the street, he was the only one who slept soundly that night, dreaming of golden wings shielding him from harm.

                His Guardian stood at the foot of his bed, staring intently in the direction of the house, power curled like a spring. Something evil walked the streets, and now all of them were aware of it.

                The Guardian was having very much the same thought as one John Watson, although neither of them would ever know it. A turning point had been reached, and it was bigger than John had ever imagined.

                The Guardian rustled his wings uncertainly, glancing at the sleeping child.  He could feel the battle approaching, and it was time to choose sides.

                He feared that not everyone would side with their humans.

* * *

 

                 John turned sharply at the friendly, “Hullo,” aimed at him, unsurprised to see Mr Holmes stepping elegantly from a taxi.

                The long coat swooped dramatically as a long hand was offered to him. John shook it briskly, feeling the swirl of others’ emotions shut off as though a door had been closed between him and everyone else. Blinking rapidly to hide his disquiet, he smiled nervously. “Ah. Mr Holmes.”

                A cold smile in return, pale eyes flashing up and down on him, studying him. “Sherlock, please.”

                John saw something flicker in those eyes, a sharp interest suddenly taken in him that hadn’t been there yesterday, as though John had suddenly manifested some interesting power. It made John feel as though he was a specimen, a butterfly pinned to a board by his wings.

                “Well, this is a prime spot,” he chattered, trying to draw those eyes to something that wasn’t him. “Must be expensive.” Much more expensive than an army pension could comfortably afford, even halved.

                Sherlock looked round, eyes scanning the street. “Mrs Hudson, the landlady. She’s given me a special deal. I did her a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.”

                “You stopped her husband being executed?”

                Sherlock glanced back at him, not searching this time, there was a smile hidden behind his outwardly cold exterior. “Oh, no. I insured it.”

                The door opened, and an elderly lady bumbled out, grabbing the man in a hug, which to John’s shock, he returned. “Sherlock!”

                Sherlock stepped back, and flourished his arm, “Mrs Hudson, Dr John Watson.” John was beginning to feel that his prospective flatmate had a flair for the... dramatic.

                Best not to judge too quickly though, he thought sharply. Judging from the website he’d found last night, the man was a little eccentric, so to speak.

                Eccentric he hoped, and not outright mad.

                The landlady was gesturing for them to enter, smiling broadly. She patted him on the shoulder as he limped into room, and he felt her joy at seeing Sherlock bubble along his skin, tingling as though a bottle of fizzing wine had been uncorked along the area where her hand rested. He felt his smile relax somewhat at the sensation; the tall, dark man couldn’t be all that bad, if this gentle lady was so overjoyed to see him.

                The flat was dusty, cluttered with books, papers and what looked like science experiments, and the wallpaper was simply awful. John noticed a violin propped in the corner, looking oddly out of place.

                John loved it straight away. “Well, this could be very nice,” he said, trying to hold back the delight.  He limped in further, taking in the kitchen and his new flatmate, standing by a doorway, looking almost nervous. “Very nice, indeed.”

                Sherlock stepped forward, smiling. “Yes, I think so, my thoughts, precisely...” John was distracted for a moment by the now almost familiar feel of his not-emotions shutting his magic down.

                They spoke over each other, John thrown by the void of emotion, Sherlock hardly even noticing John had spoken to begin with.

                “As soon as we get it cleared...”

                “... which is why I already moved in.”

                Sherlock’s eyes widened, and John flinched, “Oh. So… this is all your stuff?”

                The tall man leapt forward, grabbing papers at random and shuffling them about. “Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up.” He slammed a knife into them, pinning them firmly to the mantelpiece, and turned back to beam at John. “A bit.”

                John felt a nervous giggle almost bubble up at the madness of moving in with a man who clearly thought that tidying meant stabbing his post. He choked it down with difficulty, and then actually choked, pointing with his cane at the mantle. “That’s a skull!”

                Another half-smile. “Friend of mine.” John knew his eyes had widened slightly, one eyebrow raised, almost beyond his control. “And when I say friend...” Sherlock trailed off, not meeting his eyes.

                If John wasn’t an Empath, if he couldn’t feel the solid wall of silence where Sherlock’s emotions should have been, he would have thought that the other man was actually nervous about impressing him. Perhaps he was, he thought. And just had really, ridiculously strong shields.

                The answer hit him, and he cursed for not seeing it before. A Guardian with shielding talents, that would explain it. The man wasn’t emotionless, he was just protected! He felt himself relax, no longer as thrown by the emptiness. In fact, now it was less worrying, it was comfortable, a cocoon of silence in what could be his own flat, somewhere he could finally block out the world’s emotions.

                Mrs Hudson had been chattering as he thought the issue through, Sherlock stripping off his coat and scarf. He only caught the last of her comments. “There’s another bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”

                He blinked rapidly, aware of how guilty this trait made him look, but completely thrown. “Well, of course we’ll be needing two.”

                Mrs Hudson smiled. “Oh, don’t worry, there’s all sorts round here. Mrs Turner next door has got married ones.” She bustled in, brushing against him and replacing the silence with her calm competence and a small buzz of affectionate irritation. “Oh, Sherlock, the mess you’ve made.”

                “I looked you up on the internet last night,” John mentioned, flopping into an armchair.

                Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and studied him. “Anything interesting?”

                “Found your website, The Science of Deduction.”

                The other man’s face brightened. “What did you think?” He looked like, of all things, a child waiting for praise. John felt a warm hum in his chest, where his Guardian’s thread wove within him, as though it was pleased. It was the first reaction he’d got out of it, and it was aimed at his new flatmate.

                He didn’t dare wonder about what that said about him. Just cleared his throat and made a noncommittal face at Sherlock, whose expression crumpled. “You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb.” Slightly disbelieving.

                Sherlock seemed put out. “Yes.” A short, biting answer. “And I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone.” Another pause. “And I can tell you that, even though you act like one Severed, your Guardian is perfectly intact.”

                John froze. “How?” The moment was tense, Sherlock glaring at him and John glaring right back.

                Mrs Hudson cut in. “What about these suicides, then, Sherlock? I thought that’d be right up your street.” Sherlock wasn’t paying attention, eyes flicking over the papers in a messy pile on a desk. Suddenly, his head snapped up, like a dog that’s spotted a rabbit, eyes locked on the window. “Three exactly the same.”

                John watched him move smoothly towards the window. “Four,” snapped Sherlock, looking down onto the street. “There’s been a fourth. And there’s something different this time.”

                A flicker of unease that was both his and something else’s, as blue lights danced on Sherlock’s pale skin. “A fourth?” murmured Mrs Hudson.

                John heard steps thumping up the stairs, and craned his neck round as a man with short greying hair and a pleasant demeanour raced in. John could tell copper from a mile away, even in plainclothes. Detective, then.

                “Where?” Sherlock barked.

                “Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.” The new man’s voice was low, but not unpleasant.

                “What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to me, otherwise?”

                “They’re not suicides, not anymore. At least, if they are, they've had help.” Sherlock’s eyes locked onto the other man at this. “Will you come?”

                Sherlock’s face had barely changed from a steady look of bored disinterest, even as his eyes flickered along the detective. “Who’s on forensics?”

                A frustrated sigh. “Anderson.” John glanced at his new flatmate, noting the flash of light at the copper’s breast pocket as he did so. Keeping his Angel close to his heart, then. It made him much more human than his flatmate, whom John hadn’t even noted a single spark from. It was almost enough for John to suspect that Sherlock had no Guardian, but neither could he feel the coldness that usually radiated from those Wingless. He wouldn't go so far as to say the man  _wasn't_ mad...

                Sherlock rolled his eyes. “He doesn’t work well with me.”

                “Well, he won’t be your assistant.”

                “I _need_ an assistant.”

                The man snapped, eyes frustrated. “Will you come?”

                “Not in a police car, I’ll be right behind.”

                The copper nodded. “Thank you.” He glanced over at John and Mrs Hudson for the first time, eyes not quite meeting theirs and nodded to them as well, before striding out.

                John watched him leave, then turned to Sherlock, opening his mouth to say something, before stopping in shock.

                Sherlock was grinning, the first real smile John had seen on him since they met, a wide ear-to-ear smile that lit up his face. “Brilliant! Yes!” he cried, actually leaping into the air with joy. John’s mouth dropped and he felt a slight hint of that champagne-buzz along his skin, muffled and slight, the first hint of anything from Sherlock. Actual, real, excitement, then, strong enough to leak through his Guardian’s shields. It was comforting, in a strange and disturbing fashion. “Four serial suicides, and now this, it’s _Christmas!_ Mrs Hudson, I’ll be late. Might need some food.” He grabbed his coat and prepared to sweep out.

                John was beginning to realise that he hadn’t judged him unfairly; this was a man who had to be dramatic in everything he did. Mrs Hudson tsked. “I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper.”

                Sherlock ignored her. “Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don’t wait up!”

                Mrs Hudson looked at him after Sherlock had almost sprinted down the stairs and out, having somehow taken all the air in the room with him. John slumped in the chair, dazed, feeling a keening from his suddenly vocal Guardian that had nothing to do with _his_ mood and everything to do with his flatmate’s absence. “Look at him, dashing about. My husband was just the same. But you’re more the sitting-down type, I can tell. I’ll make you a cuppa, you rest your leg.”

                John felt fury that wasn’t entirely his well up. “Damn my leg!” He flinched, wondering frantically where that had come from, ashamed at the shocked expression on her face. “Sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s just, sometimes, this bloody thing.”

                Mrs Hudson smiled nervously. “I understand dear, I’ve got a hip.” She bustled off and John stopped paying attention to her, searching frantically for the source of the rage.

                He found it, a petulant ball of Guardian that was profoundly unlike any he’d had before. They had been extensions of himself, facets of his personality he could reach for and have them be as familiar as his hand. This… This was a pale shadow of that, and angry, simmering bubble of faded power, ready to lash out.

                He was slightly uncomfortable with the realisation that his new Guardian seemed to have the ability to swing wildly from emotion to emotion. That probably, definitely boded ill for his mental state.

                He refused to think about how happy Sherlock seemed to make it, and how he could almost sense the resentment aimed at himself, from himself. The Guardian hadn’t formed enough to have a shape yet, still latched tightly to his power. No wonder he’d been picking up so many emotions lately, his basic shields rendered useless by the sudden potency of his powers. That would fade when the Guardian either took on a form or found something to attach to. Hopefully the mood swings would go with it.

                It was enough to make his head hurt, and he slumped further into the chair, closing his eyes, hands gripping his cane tightly.

                “You’re a doctor,” came the deep, velvet voice, startling him out of his reverie. “In fact, you’re an army doctor.”

                John stood, refusing to let his mad flatmate see him startled. “Yes.” He silently willed his Guardian to shut up, as it suddenly blazed with excitement again, anger forgotten. It was making it difficult to concentrate, like trying to hold a conversation with someone else shouting in his ear.

                “Any good?” asked Sherlock.

                John frowned. Couldn’t he just read the answer in his shoelaces or something? “Very good.”

                Sherlock took a step towards him, intent. “Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths.” Another step.

                “Well, yes.” Don’t think about that, don’t think... Was that another step?

                Sherlock was almost toe to toe with him now, imposing. “Bit of trouble too, I bet?”

                “Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much.” Did the man have no personal space?

                “Want to see some more?”

                John felt his Guardian surge inside him, but he didn’t need its input for this. “Oh, God, yes.” He followed the taller man down the stairs, feeling alive for the first time since the army, finally feeling in control of himself. “Sorry, Mrs Hudson, skip the tea. Off out.”

                “Both of you?” she asked, put out.

                “Impossible suicides, four of them?” Sherlock practically shouted, wheeling round. “No point sitting at home when there’s finally something fun going on!”

                “Look at you, all happy. It’s not decent,” she grumbled, but John could feel her affection and love for the strange man.

                Sherlock laughed. “Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!”

                He swept out the door, dragging John behind like a piece of debris caught in his wake, loving every moment of the ride.


	3. Cry of the Nightingale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, I start the wild divergence from canon. Hold on, guys and girls. And let me know if any wild plot holes slip through, in case they're not intentional.
> 
> Although, I mean everything I do. Ever. Reviews are like cheetah food to my rabbit of a muse, he only needs a little to go like buggery. As ever, any mistakes are mine and all awesomeness is accredited to my beta, Shortlockholmes.

* * *

Everything perfect in its kind has to transcend its own kind, it must become something different and incomparable. In some notes the nightingale is still a bird; then it rises above its class and seems to suggest to every winged creature what singing is truly like.

~Johann Von Goethe

**Nightingale**  (Luscinia megarhynchos) - plaintive warning of impending death, cry for help from a soul in purgatory

* * *

John always found there's only so long someone could stand you looking at them before they have to say something. Sherlock was proving a harder case to crack, but John felt the solid ten minutes of relentless staring was taking its toll, as the detective's pale eyes began to flicker back and forth from the phone's screen to John's face. Any moment now...

"OK, you've got questions..." Sherlock prompted, lowering the phone.

John wasted no time. "Yeah. Where are we going?"

"Crime scene. Next."

He had already gathered that. "Who are you? What do you do?"

"What do you think?"

"I'd say... private detective." He paused, mind racing, connecting the dots.

"But?"

"The police don't go to private detectives."

Sherlock chuckled and smiled smugly. John was beginning to think that's his default setting. "I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world." He glanced at John, noted the raised eyebrow. "I invented the job."

"What does that mean?" he asked, incredulously.

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"The police don't consult amateurs."

Sherlock's head snapped round and he narrowed his eyes slightly. John waited, seeing if his goading did the trick. The apparent consulting detective tried to sound bored, drawling. John could feel a slight muted restlessness drumming against him, as though he was slowly coming into sync with the other man's dulled emotions.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq. You looked surprised."

"Yes, how did you know?" This was what John had hoped to discover.

"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Barts, so army doctor, obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp is bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then.

"Occasionally, you reach for your hip, for something that's not there anymore. You've done it most often when the war is mentioned, so a weapon, perhaps. No reason to reach for a weapon when not in danger unless you're used to touching it for reassurance. Most likely it was a perch for a Guardian. You don't carry it now, would if it was still a perch. The wound was critical enough to Sunder you from your Guardian, then. You must have nearly died out there. Wounded in action, suntan, Sundered Guardian – Afghanistan or Iraq."

John stared at him, stunned. "You guessed my Class. How? And my therapist?"

Sherlock snorted. "A doctor? Healing and Helping, naturally. Not even a challenge. But you hold yourself military straight, a soldier. Healers don't fight. You watch your surroundings, constantly, scanning for threats. Yet your eyes follow things that aren't there, so either you're mad or you have a Sight skill. You're Sundered, of course you have a therapist.

"Then there's your brother. Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player. You're looking for a flatshare. You wouldn't buy this – it's a gift. Scratches. Not one, many over time – it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. You wouldn't treat your one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

"The engraving?" John was entranced, spellbound by the dance of reason his new flatmate was leading him on. He was also beginning to get concerned that the man wasn't breathing during his speech. He listened, shocked, as Sherlock calmly began to detail his life and relationship with his "brother", the alcoholic Harry Watson, having deduced almost their entire relationship by the smartphone Harry had given him upon his return to London, urging him to keep touch.  
John took a deep breath, trying to find an even keel on which to begin. "How... can you possibly know about the drinking?"

"Shot in the dark." That smug smile again. "Good one, though. Power connection – tiny little scuff marks round the edge. Every night he plugs it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you were right."

"I was right? Right about what?" Right about this man being mad, for one, although he refused to say  _that_ out loud.

"The police don't consult amateurs."

"That... was amazing," John breathed, stunned.

Sherlock's eyes flickered up and over to him, widened slightly. He looked almost as stunned he did. "Do you think so?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary." Words can't even begin to say what  _that_  was.

"That's not what people normally say." Sherlock sounded wary, surprised. John felt a slight hum against his skin, too faint to make out. Reaching for it only made it slip away, like trying to cup water in his hands.

"What do they normally say?"

Sherlock smiled without humour. "Piss off."

John blinked and thought about laughing. It didn't really seem funny, but... He managed a dry smile. "One question, though. My Angel. You explained how you knew I was Sundered, although that seems like a shot in the dark, too, to my ears. Doesn't explain how you knew I was worried about... that."

Sherlock's mouth twitched, as though irritated. "Being Severed? Surely you're not such an idiot you can't tell between someone who's Severed and someone Sundered?"

He ignored the insult. "I fought in a war, Sherlock. I saw Severings."

The other man almost looked disappointed with him. "Then you know that you're not. You're not mad, you're not psychopathic. Death or near-death separates the bond between human and Guardian. If your heart stops, even for a short amount of time, it makes it harder for a new Guardian to form. Anyone would fear the same. Your Angel is hardly something to brag about, but it's there. You still use your Skill; you can't if you're Severed."

John thought about what he knew of this man, the smug declarations of fact and logic, how he bragged of his path of deductions. If he had seen the fear in the way John tied his shoelaces, he would have said. The pale eyes that see everything.  _Everything_.  
"You can see Guardians. You knew I was watching Molly's, and you know mine is starting to reform."

Sherlock pulled a face as though John announced that he's  _stupid_. "Hardly. You know as well as I that the chances of me being able to see others' Guardians are slim to none. That skill set is almost extinct."

"Not impossible."

He spoke slowly, thinking. "No, not impossible. Very little is. I cannot... see them, no."

"But you can communicate? You can  _speak_  with them?" John was stunned.

Seeing Guardians, other people's Guardians, is... rare. Rare and invasive in a way that makes his Empathy look fantastic in comparison. Speaking with them, with people's  _souls_ , that's  _mythological_. "You scoffed at having an acknowledged skill, but expect me to believe you have one that only exists in fairy tales?" Skills like these are the reason Communication and Mindsight Class is mistrusted.

Those eyes met his, colour shifting slightly, darkening. John felt a shiver run down his spine; he had heard of eyes that almost seem as though they can look into souls. Sherlock had just admitted that his actually could. It was frightening and intense all at once, as though John sat bared for him to examine at will.  
"For someone who can delve into the depths of another's most keenly hidden emotions," the detective murmured, softly, "you seem remarkably resistant to having your own self scrutinised back."

John reeled. He'd spent his whole life hiding his Empath skills – those with skills that are seen as an invasion of privacy, they don't lead happy lives. To have someone simply  _look_  at him and know, that was his nightmare.

Before he could say anything more, Sherlock had vanished, sweeping out of the taxi in a swirl of his coat, leaving a shell-shocked John to stare after him. He watched the taller man stride towards a series of flashing lights further up the street, for a moment wondering whether to follow or not. He could walk away from this now, walk away from the danger and the murders, back to his life.

His cane tumbled out of his hands, falling as though someone grabbed the other end and tugged impatiently. It clattered onto the street through the open cab door. John lunged for it, missing and almost falling out straight after it.

A cough behind him. He turned, sheepish, to see the driver watching him with one raised eyebrow.  _Of course_  he'd been left to pay for the fare. He sighed and reached for his wallet, waving off the change and limping awkwardly after his companion. He'd fought in a war; he could handle Sherlock Holmes.

The man in question turned his head slightly, slowly as he heard John coming from behind him. "Did I get anything wrong?"

John grinned. Well, he didn't see everything. "Harry and me don't get along, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker."

That smug smile was back. "Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything."

"Harry is short for Harriet."

Sherlock stopped, as though John had instead turned and slapped him. "Harry's your sister."

John interrupted him, realizing they were suddenly smack-bang in the middle of a ring of police cars and uniformed police officers. "What exactly am I supposed to be doing here?"

"Sister!"

Sherlock was repeating himself. John supposed it would be awkward to return to 221B and inform Mrs Hudson he'd broken the detective.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?"

Sherlock shook his head irritably "There's always something."

He wasn't even listening now. John was left with no choice but to follow him. A pretty woman in plainclothes, dark-eyed, and grim approached them. "Hullo, Freak."

John blinked, not being quite sure he'd heard that right. Two steps towards her later, he was  _sure_. He almost stumbled as he walked into a wall of animosity so thick, he could feel it in the back of his throat, like swallowing pond slime.

Sherlock's eyes never left the woman's, but he took a single step back towards John, their arms brushing slightly. John felt the sick flow of hatred and disgust from her stop abruptly, and stared hard at him. It was almost as though Sherlock had... No. He couldn't have... Touch would always win over proximity, but that was something only Empaths knew. And why would he, for John...?

Her arm reached for him, but he jerked away. She seemed slightly put out by his reaction, shocked. "Who's this?" Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

John felt his ears burn with embarrassment at his knee-jerk reaction.  _Look at yourself_ , he thought with disgust.  _Trying to hide from the world, at a stranger's touch._

It wasn't as though he wasn't used to negative emotions, he'd lived his whole life with them and always coped before. It was almost as though they'd grown more potent over the last few days... harder to ignore, to block out. He was more easily distracted as well, he'd noticed, suddenly aware that they were both looking at him, Sally in confusion, Sherlock expectantly.

He took another step back. "Would it be better if I just waited...?" He gestured vaguely.

"No," snapped Sherlock, holding the police tape up.

Sally rolled her eyes as he straightened. "Freak's here, bringing him in," she said, bitterness colouring her voice, into her radio.

"Freak?" John muttered.

A sniff from his companion. "Pet name." He paused, smirking. "Her Angel is a ridiculous dog. Yapping creature, awful tenacious thing."

John felt a slight flicker of almost-jealously, if Sherlock was telling the truth. It's an enviable talent, to know the forms that Angels took. It seemed almost unfair for, of all people, Sherlock I-Can-Deduce-Better-Than-Anyone Holmes, could speak with the hidden aspects of their personalities that walked by their sides.

"Dogs are loyal and brave," John remarked.

"Dogs are subservient," was the dark reply. He was distracted, turning back and forth, examining the house and street, and every inch of their surroundings. Eventually, his eyes fell on an angry-looking man striding towards them. "Ah, Anderson," drawled Sherlock. "Here we are again."

John was beginning to understand why so many people looked angry round Sherlock. He resisted taking a step towards him, and instead ensured that the detective was between him and the man called Anderson.

Anderson spoke, voice clipped, scowling down the taller man from the top of the kerb. "It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

Sherlock beamed, the picture of innocence as John's heart sunk, waiting for it. "Quite clear. And... is your wife away for long?"

Anderson scowled. "Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that." The smile vanished, replaced with the cold boredom John had first glimpsed back at the flat.

"My deodorant," Anderson repeated, mouth twisting with confusion.

"It's for men."

Anderson's face scrunched, as though Sherlock presented him with a particularly difficult maths problem. "Well, of course it's for men – I'm wearing it."

Deadpan. "So's Sergeant Donovan."

Anderson spun to stare, wide-eyed, at the horrified woman behind him.

Sherlock sniffed the air. "Ooh... I think it just vaporised. May I go in?" He went to step round Anderson, but his path was blocked.

John found himself with a faceful of Sherlock's coat as Anderson waved his arm in front of them.

"Hey, look, whatever you're trying to imply..."

Sherlock shoved past him, striding up the steps to the house. "I'm not implying anything. I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

John pulled his best neutral expression as he sidled past them, all his willpower taken by the effort it took not to glance at Donovan's knees. An effort he shamefully lost, although he managed not to smirk, a little put out by the shattered expression on her face.

The house is even more dilapidated on the inside than the exterior, paint faded and cracked and rubbish chucked about. John followed Sherlock into a room where the copper from before was pulling on the same blue coverall as Anderson had been wearing.

"You'll need to wear one of these," he remarked as they entered. "Who's this?"

"He's with me," Sherlock said, ignoring the offered pile of blue.

"But who is he?" The copper's eyes were on John who took the blue coverall instead and pulled it on.

"I said he's with me," Sherlock repeated.

John frowned at him. "Aren't you going to put one on?"

Sherlock just stared at him, with the expression that John assumed is his "Are you an idiot?" face. Of course, even the man's germs would be too meticulous to even dare contaminate a crime scene.

"So where are we?" Sherlock asked, pulling a pair of gloves on. John supposed he was glad that at least he was taking  _that_  precaution.

"Upstairs," replied the copper, pulling his own pair on, and gesturing for them to follow.

"I can give you two minutes," he told them, leading up the stairs.

"May need longer," Sherlock remarked.

The other man shook his head slightly, clearly used to dealing with him. "Her name's Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her. We found a pill on her body, crushed in her hand. That's our connection."

The ex-soldier followed the other two men into the room holding the body, hesitantly. People murdered in violent circumstances have a tendency to leave behind residue of their fear and pain, a web strung about the area they'd died in, that's usually mildly unpleasant to walk unprepared into.

Hovering by the door, he watched as Sherlock paced round the body, that of a woman dressed in a simply atrocious shade of pink, sprawled ungainly on her back, eyes locked unseeing on the ceiling. Her dress is shredded from the front, five long gashes torn through it and into her stomach, eviscerating her. John examined her from a distance with a doctor's eye. She would have died slowly, judging from the position of the wounds. A painful, agonisingly slow death.

He watched as Sherlock's eyes darted over the woman and then round the room. He paused before the wall. Cut deeply into the surface, gouged as though by the tip of a knife, is the word "Rache." The 'e' is rough, and the tail ends with a long, horizontal slash, as though the implement used to cut the letters was roughly dragged away halfway through.

Sherlock dropped to his knees and ran his hand over her dress, avoiding the wounds, fingers rubbing together as though testing for damp. He slid the woman's ring off, examining it, then put it back on and moved to her face. His gaze raked over her, careful attention paid to the slashes. He was meticulous, studying every inch of the woman as the other two watched, the copper with a grim face, John entranced by the doorway. He wondered what Sherlock was seeing, those eyes so focussed and that brilliant mind racing.

"Got anything?" the copper piped up. "It looks like an animal, what kind I can't imagine. Not a dog, that's for sure."

Sherlock looked up and smiled, eyes bright. "Not much."

"She's German." They turned to find Anderson leaning nonchalantly in the doorway. " _Rache_. It's German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us **–** "

"Yes. Thank you for your input," Sherlock interrupted, slamming the door in his face.

The copper didn't blink as John's eyes widened. "So she's German," he asked Sherlock.

"Of course she's not," he snapped, seemingly disgusted with the very idea. He was tapping at his phone. "She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff – so far so obvious."

"Sorry?" John asked, lost. "Obvious?"

"What about the message?" asked the  **c** opper, exasperated. "And the  _wounds_ , Sherlock."

Sherlock ignored him and turned his eyes to John. "Dr Watson, what do you think? You're a medical man."

"We have a whole team outside!" thecopper exclaimed.

"They won't work with me," Sherlock said haughtily, carefully stepping round the body and towards the message, studying the floor.

John peered round the copper, noting the long gashes in the floors, gouged like... claw marks.

"I'm breaking every rule letting  _you_  in here..."

"Yes. Because you need me."

The copper sighed. "Yes, I do. God help me."

Sherlock turned and glanced irritably at John. "Hurry up, I need you to look at the body."

John took a step forward, straight into a nightmare.

The emotions slammed into him with none of the gentle suggestion he was used to. They wrapped round him instead, choking him, screaming to be heard.

_Pain, taste them, pain, hurts so bad, make it stop, protect, must save, fear, can't breathe, kill, pain, blood, fear, fear, hurting him, rip, bite, no, stop, pain, FEAR, MAKE THEM HURT, PAIN._

"Dr Watson!"

Somebody was touching him, brushing away the thick webs that dragged him down into the maelstrom of anguish whirling about the room. The emotions shut off, and he became aware that someone was gripping his upper arms, tight enough to bruise, and staring into his face.

Blue eyes. No, green. Or maybe both. Wolf eyes.

"Sherlock," he gasped, bile rising in his throat.

The eyes narrowed. "Swallow that or you'll contaminate the crime scene."

John staggered to his feet, Sherlock half-dragging him, having not relinquished his tight hold on his arms. John felt a stab of pain in his injured shoulder, nothing compared to the residual pain in his head from the onslaught. He could feel the beginnings of a migraine building, a dull throbbing, tightness behind his eyes.

"You all right?" asked the copper, concerned.

"Yes, of course he's fine," snapped Sherlock, not giving John time to answer. "He's an Empath – he just walked into a murder scene, he's fine."

John froze, betrayed. Sherlock must have felt him tense because he glanced back at him, frustrated. "Oh, don't be ridiculous. Lestrade here is hardly going to judge you; he's got it worse than you."

The man in question flinched, eyes darkening. "At least I don't collapse at crime scenes. Look, are you  _sure_  you're all right? I can't handle the paperwork if you up and keel over here – you're not even supposed to be here."

"I'm fine," John muttered. "It was just... a bit stronger than what I'm used to." Was it his imagination, or did Sherlock glance at him with renewed interest at that statement?

Apparently not. Sherlock snapped the fingers of his free hand, the other still gripping John's arm. The ex-soldier felt a surge of gratitude, aware that the only thing standing between him and the agony of the murdered woman was Sherlock's touch, skin cool against his. "John, the  _body._  Do hurry up. Lestrade isn't getting any smarter just standing here, aging."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Do as he says. Help yourself. Just... be careful, all right?"

Conscious of Sherlock's hand still holding his arm, John inched closer to the body, crouching with his bad leg sprawled uncomfortably. He examined the wounds carefully, noting the ragged edges and the way they ran carefully parallel.

"I don't know what I can tell you that you don't know. Cause of death is clear, she's got a bloody great – Oh, hello."

He felt Sherlock tense, fingers gripping slightly tighter, as John leant close to the woman's face, peering into her eyes. "The blood, Sherlock."

"Oh," breathed the other man, gaze flickering across the blood. "Stupid. Of course."

"What of it?" Lestrade asked, moving forward slightly. "There's a lot,"

"Not for this kind of injury. Look how deep it is. She should have bled out, that should have been COD. Massive internal trauma, exsanguination. She died too quickly." John frowned.

Sherlock hummed slightly, bending down behind him. John could feel his breath on the back of his neck. When he spoke, his voice was loud and deep by his ear. John twitched slightly, startled.

"Burst capillaries in the eyes." He knelt next to John and sniffed. "Vomit in her mouth, not much. Strong smell of sweat, copious amounts to be still so strong."

"Blood on her lips, Sherlock. She was coughing up blood."

"I said two minutes; I'll need anything you've got," Lestrade interrupted.

Sherlock suddenly jerked next to him, leaping upright, almost toppling John over as his arm was yanked into the air. Pacing as much as he could with his hand tight round John's arm, he rattled off the facts, eyes wild. "Victim was in her late 30's. Professional person, going by her clothes. I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today. "

"How can you possibly...?

Sherlock snapped, furious at the interruption. John could see him going over the information, trying to place it all, sort it into order. "Shut up! She's been married for at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married."

"Oh, for God's sake, you're just making this up!" Lestrade sounded incredulous, shocked.

John contemplated sidling closer, trying to get a handle on the copper's feelings about Sherlock, but he wasn't game to move from the bubble of silence that the detective radiated. Besides, as Sherlock so carelessly revealed, everyone there would know what he was doing.

"Her wedding ring. Ten years old, at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there." Sherlock shoved John near Lestrade and let go, spinning and running his hands through his hair, seeming to gather more momentum as he moved.

The doctor staggered, glaring at him, put out by how Sherlock seemed to almost read minds. Lestrade's glowering expression didn't bode well either, though John was rather startled to not feel any animosity from him. Instead, it was a comforting hum of restrained curiosity, with a slight edge of awe. He was impressed – the grim-faced copper hid his feelings well. Perhaps not even Sherlock was aware of how highly he's regarded.

"The inside is shinier than the outside, so its regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what – or rather,  _who_  – does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

John felt the awe radiating from Lestrade suddenly darken, changing from a warmth to a sudden bitter cold chill of dismay. As though the DI put together a puzzle long in the solving. John shifted away slightly, edging towards the door, dulling the emotion. "That's brilliant," he remarked, breaking the tension."

Sherlock's head snapped to look at him.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"Cardiff?" Lestrade was trying to get his head back into the game, and John could feel him foundering. He wondered for a moment what had thrown the copper, who shifted nervously, fingers twisting something in his hand.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" the detective asked.

"It's not obvious to me," John replied, not at all put out. He was enjoying seeing Sherlock work.

Sherlock shot him a pitying look. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring. Her coat – it's slightly damp, she's been in heavy rain for the last few hours – no rain anywhere in London for that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her pocket, but it's dry and unused. Not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella. She can't have travelled more than two or three hours, because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time? Cardiff."

"That's fantastic," John exclaimed, with an odd burst of pride in his chest.  _Pride? In a man I just met. Odd._  He pushed it aside, as Sherlock looked at him again, mouth quirked oddly.

"Do you know you do that out loud?"

John flinched. "Sorry, I'll shut up."

"No, it's... fine."

"And the claw marks?" Lestrade asked, watching Sherlock examine them again.

"Doesn't make sense... Clearly an animal of some sort, but there's nothing,  _nothing_  in the London area or the country, big enough to make those marks. And the word, Rachel –"

"So she was writing 'Rachel'?"

"No, she was leaving an angry note in German! Of  _course_  she was writing Rachel, no other word it... Couldn't have been her."

John and Lestrade talked over each other.

"Sorry?"

"What?"

Sherlock stared at the wall. "That wasn't scratched with a human nail. Look at hers; they're intact. They're beyond intact  **–**  they're immaculate. Whatever made that mark was sharp, cut through the loose wallpaper, and into the wall. Then it was grabbed, dragged away. The wallpaper is torn along the tail of the 'e', but not the wood, so it was curved, hooked in, sharp. A claw. Smaller than what did her in, much smaller. Her wounds were made by something the size of a medium to large dog, or an exceptionally small bear. The ones here were made by something cat-sized – the marks are much more delicate, if rushed."

"You're saying a bear attacked our victim, whilst her cat scrawled a message on the wall?" Lestrade almost shouted. "Are you high?"

"They fought, the animals. See the claw marks, made by hind legs scrabbling for purchase. But no blood. They must have fought viciously, there should be blood everywhere, but... Oh.  _Oh._ " Sherlock turned, his eyes gleaming. "This is FANTASTIC! We have WITNESSES! And a serial killer, they're always fun. Hard, until they make a mistake. You have to wait."

"We can't just wait!"

"Oh, we're done waiting! Houston, we have a mistake! No living animal made those marks! Get onto Cardiff, find out who Jennifer Wilson's friends and family were. Find Rachel!"

Lestrade gaped as Sherlock sprinted out the room, clattering down the stairs. "Sherlock, where are you going?" he shouted, John limping after the both of them.

"To do your job," he shouted back, spinning on the bottom stair and throwing his arms wide. "They're always watching, Lestrade. Everywhere you are and everything you do. You just don't  _LISTEN_!"

And with that he was gone, leaving them perhaps even more confused than when he had arrived. John tried to pretend the sudden ache in his chest had nothing to do with Sherlock's absence.

 


	4. Those who are named

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lateness of this chapter, and the overall lameness of it. As always, my mistakes are my own, of which I am sure there are many. Also, for some reason, AO3 has decided it loves strangely spacing my paragraphs. So if there's random spaces in spots, I swear, it was not me!

"The deer said, "The Man has all that he needs. Now his sadness will stop." But the owl replied, "No. I saw a hole in the Man, deep like a hunger he will never fill. It is what makes him sad and what makes him want. He will go on taking and taking, until one day the World will say, 'I am no more and I have nothing left to give.'""

~ _Apocalypto_ (2006)

 _ **Barn Owl**  (Tyto alba) _  _\- Prince of Darkness, Wisdom, Harbringer of Death_

* * *

When Lestrade was very young – young enough to still hold Mother’s hand whilst crossing the street, but too old to sit upon Father’s knee – he met a man who would shape his entire life. To his mother, the exchange had taken less than a minute and consisted entirely of two words.  
            “Excuse me,” said politely, by a well-dressed man in his early twenties. He had a sparkling smile and bright eyes, and gave a quick ruffle to her son’s hair.  
            She was almost instantly taken, smiling back and casting an approving eye over him. Greg was too young to understand what he saw when he looked, really  _looked_ , at people, so the blemishes of his mother’s adulteries escaped him.  
            He had frozen as the man appeared in front of him, shocked at the riot of colours that threaded through him. It should have been pretty, almost like a rainbow, predominantly red, interspersed with threads of green and gold, from a core of black entwined with deep purple. It should have been, especially to a child, but the colours were off – brilliant, almost slimy in their intensity. They hurt to look at, and made him feel sick and headachy. He pressed against his mother’s side, whimpering, even though he was much too old for that.  
            They had been having a lovely day out, in the bright summer sun. He had been promised ice cream if he behaved, and crying was most certainly not behaving. He squinted, trying to block out the mess of colour. His mother tried to push him away, embarrassed, nodding politely to the man as they passed. He laughed, said those two fateful words, and for a brief moment of barely ten seconds, petted the shaking boy on his tousled ash-blond hair.  
            It was like going outside in winter without his coat, an instant bitter cold that froze him to the very bone. He was drowning in the cold, becoming brittle and twisted by it, about to shatter. The feeling was so unsettling; he stood stock still for a few moments, trying to process something he couldn’t fathom, eyes huge and mouth tightly shut, teeth clenched to stop himself from making any noise. As had never happened before, and would not happen again for almost forty years, he could see what had caused the man’s mottled aura: hands wrapped tightly round a slender neck, choked off screams, a torn sleeve, crying, gagging, cutting, his vision blotched with red. He watched the ground in front of him tear itself into a makeshift grave for countless mutilated pieces of what had once been human beings. A dismembered finger decorated by a ring with an obscenely large ruby, almost brushed his shoe.  
            He was snapped out of it by a sudden sharp pain across his cheek. He stumbled back, stunned – glancing up at his mother with eyes that she would later describe as “empty” – her hand raised still after delivering the stinging blow. She would later berate him for making such a scene. He didn’t realise he had been keening quietly, caught up in untold horrors. He stared sightlessly at her, as she checked to make sure no one she knew had seen them, before grabbing him by the arm and dragging him off after her.  
            It was decided that the sun had gotten to him and he was much too unwell for ice cream, after he threw up on her shoes and started crying uncontrollably. He tried to tell his Father about the visions after all had calmed down: a man made of “sick rainbows,” who buried a lady, but forgot her finger. His Father hushed him, horrified at what his son had “thought up”.  
            Three weeks later, they had been eating together when the news showed the man’s face along with details of his many crimes. There had also been a picture of a beautiful woman in her thirties, hand raised to shield her face from the sun. A ruby glinted on one finger.  
            Greg would never forget the gasp and clatter of his mother dropping her cutlery onto her plate and the way she looked at him. He was rushed out of the kitchen, and knew after that they’d been talking about him, going by the large dessert he’d been given to eat in his room – he was very rarely allowed to eat there, unless it was inconvenient for him to be elsewhere.  
            Later, looking back and realising what he’d seen, he decided that he wanted to do something with the skill that had caused him nothing but trouble. The man had killed five others, all young girls, ages decreasing as he’d gone until the last was only a few years older than Greg himself. He unearthed her photo whilst looking the case up at school and duly counted back until deducing that the girl had been killed, by coroner’s estimate, the same day that they’d briefly met the man. He had either been planning the murder, on his way to the girl, or leaving the crime scene...  
            For someone as prone to guilt as Greg, constantly seeing misdeeds in others and the pain they caused, it was a simple leap from observing to actively using his gift for good, one that led him to the police force and a quick push up the ranks. An ascent that he could almost fully lay on his logic and keen eye for detective work.  
            Almost fully. He couldn’t escape the fact that his entire career, whilst possibly tarred with Fate’s brush, could also be attributed to the man who was almost like Fate personified.  
            After all, very few people of note missed the eye of one Mycroft Holmes.

 

* * *

 

           He hadn’t truly found himself under the scrutiny of Sherlock’s imposing older sibling until they had met twice already, both times briefly. Greg had learnt his lesson with looking into the younger Holmes, and so, carefully averted his skill’s eye from Mycroft on those occasions. He didn’t wish to see something that would inevitably send him spinning down the path of Fate again, as Sherlock had so drastically altered his life already.  
            As the younger Holmes slept off what was evidently the mother of all trips, on his threadbare couch, the then-recently promoted Detective Sergeant ducked out for a quick drink, the better to avoid the noxious company of a Sherlock coming down from his plateau of cocaine. Greg was already tempted enough to drag him to the lock-up for a night and let him sleep it off there. After several snarky comments about the woman he was currently seeing and commenting on Lestrade’s tenacity, likening him to a lobster, his patience was wearing thin.  
            He hadn’t even  _met_  Elsbeth, the stupid git. He fumed furiously, concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other, very conscious of bordering on the very knife’s edge of tipsy.  
            A car smoothly pulled alongside him, drawing to a stop a few steps ahead. He paused, glancing about warily. No witnesses. He hoped silently that he wasn’t about to be murdered, not with his phone in his pocket, unlocked and containing certain photographs of the lovely Elsbeth. The boys at work would talk about nothing else, even as they attended his funeral.  
            The door swung open, and he took a step backwards, praying that someone would hear him holler if they grabbed him. He reached for his Angel, desperately hoping it was awake, but the pints had numbed it. Damn it! Whoever thought up the concept of Guardians being rendered useless by alcohol was a cruel soul indeed. Not that it would have done much good, but it was always heartening to have something by your side.                                  
            Mycroft Holmes leant out the car, face as blank as always. “Do hurry,  _Detective_ , you’re letting the cold air in.”  
            Oh, bloody hell. A confrontation with Creepy Holmes, this was the very opposite of a restful night. He got in, trying to match Mycroft’s practised grace and failing as his foot caught the doorstep. Greg tipped in, ears red, scrambling into the seat facing him.  
            Mycroft did a valiant job of ignoring him, although his mouth twitched slightly as he leant back, umbrella held sedately across his lap. “Congratulations are in order, I hear,” he drawled. “Hardly surprising. You do have the highest number of cases solved in your division.”  
            “Many of which I did without your brother’s help,” Lestrade amended pointedly, not willing to owe this Holmes anything. “I see I’m not the only one who’s had a promotion.”  
            Mycroft raised one eyebrow. “Oh?”  
            The DS shrugged, glancing about the car’s interior. “Bit posh, this. Much posher than what I saw you in last, company car?”  
            Mycroft smiled this time, although it didn’t reach his eyes. Greg wondered if the man ever truly smiled, or if he was as cold as he seemed. “Clearly, the promotion was not completely unfounded. A much more stressful position, it would seem.” A nod to his greying hair, more salt than pepper now. Not that it had ever been dark.  
            “At least I’m not ginger,” he said, snappily.  
            Mycroft laughed, once, a sharp chuckle that was gone as quickly as it came, leaving Greg stunned. “Now, now, I never said I didn’t like it. Very refined.” His smile was catlike, cunning.  
            Greg shifted uncomfortably. He preferred Sherlock’s outright antagonism to this... whatever it was. “Kidnapping now, Mycroft? I thought us past that stage.”  
            “It’s hardly kidnapping; you got into my car quite willingly, as I recall. Very little persuasion was needed. Do you remember how we met?”  
            Greg blinked, thrown off course by the sudden change of subject. He really did not want to dance with Mycroft Holmes whilst alcohol coursed through his veins; he always came off worse for these conversations. “Crime scene. You were there for your brother.”  
            “Ah, yes. Sherlock does seem to be our singular shared connection, does he not?”  
            “I doubt you have any connections that don’t involve your brother, really.” Another catlike smile, blue eyes watching him unwaveringly. Greg returned the gaze, stubbornly not breaking eye contact.  
            “My brother does tend to bring people together. Usually united in dislike for him, and in that, you and I find ourselves in a group of... something different altogether: those who can, perhaps, see my brother for the unique man he truly is.” The words were emotionless, as though he was speaking of a man neither of them are particularly close to. Their childhood must have been truly remarkable; Greg pitied their parents.  
            “If you’re wondering where he is, I reckon he’s still unconscious on my couch,” Greg said, trying to match the emotionless tone, but unable to hide the irritation that slipped in. Irritation,  _not_  concern, no matter what anyone said.  
            “Oh, I know exactly where he is.” Mycroft settled into the seat further, fingers tapping the umbrella. “Why do you continue, after seeing what he is capable of in his most inhuman moments, to help my brother?”  
            “Is that really what you want to ask me? Why a copper would want to help someone who needs it?”  
            “He isn’t the sort to inspire loyalty or friendships. Yet, every time he is in trouble, you seem to be there to catch him before he falls too far. He isn’t a good man, Gregory.”  
            “Is this a ‘break his heart and I’ll break you’ speech? Because it sounds like you’re warning me away from him, and I can’t tell if your worry is for him or me.”  
            Silence.  
            “Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?” The smile was gone as though there had never been a trace of it there.  
            Greg smirked, an expression he knew irritated the older man. Sherlock had taken care to inform him of this, enjoying anything that annoyed his hated brother. “You  _are_  worried about him, Mycroft. How sentimental.”  
            “He is family. I do not wish to warn you away from him, quite the contrary. In fact, if you were to continue... helping him as you do, certain arrangements could be made on your behalf. To ease your way.”  
            “I’m sorry?”  
            “Nothing you’d feel uncomfortable with, of course. Money? You surely need it, with that abysmal flat you live in. Another promotion perhaps?”  
            Greg took a deep breath. “If you were as good at reading people as you think you are, you’d know my answer to that. Besides, if I took help from you, do you think Sherlock would come to me?”  
            Mycroft didn’t react, and Greg realised numbly that he’d known all along what his answer was going to be. “Reading people? That’s my brother’s trick. I don’t need to. I knew you’d say no, because you won’t allow yourself to become indebted to me in any fashion. Your father’s debts left a lasting impression in you, fortunately a positive one. And I know you’ll continue helping Sherlock, because you saw something in him you can’t walk away from.”  
            Greg was frozen, shaken. His Guardian woke up suddenly, invisible claws in his shirt pocket, prickling against his skin through the fabric, as though it was slightly unwinding from his warrant card.  
            “When you were eight, you were sent away to a boarding school renowned for its focus on science. Remarkable, considering that your shockingly terrible grades in science were only noteworthy for their consistency.” A pause. “Perhaps your parents were uncomfortable with their son being able to look at them and know their darkest acts of passion. Indulge me. What do you see when you look at me, Sergeant?”  
            Greg swallowed, trying to bring moisture back into a mouth that was dry. “Nothing. I don’t see anything. I don’t try.”  
            A faint flicker of something unfathomable on the other man’s face. “And my brother? What do you see when you look at him? What did you see that led you to defend him against accusations, both deserved and perhaps not?”  
            Another swallow. “He’s not a psychopath. I’ve seen one of those once. He’s... not. I don’t see murder; not cold, heartless murder.”  
            “That doesn’t mean he will never kill anyone.”  
            “He doesn’t hold the intent.” Greg paused. He didn’t place too much stock on what he saw; it was fallible. “Sherlock won’t ever turn dark. It’d be boring, we’d never catch him, and where’s the puzzle? He won’t ever commit crimes because getting away with crime is easy. Dull.”  
            Mycroft leant forward, bringing the force of his imposing personality down on him. “What did you see in my brother, Gregory?”  
            “I don’t think it’s your right to be peering into your brother’s past or future...”  
            “One could argue it’s not yours either.”  
            “... and I think this conversation is–“  
            “It wouldn’t possibly have anything to do with your mother’s suicide when you were fourteen, would it?”  
            “–over.”  
            Greg shuddered. He couldn’t tell if he was more furious or upset.  
            “Over. It’s  _over_  now. Stop the car.”  
            “Did you see my brother killing himself? Is that what it was? You must see suicidal people every day. Does every one of them bring back the memories of finding her? What makes Sherlock so–”  
            “OUT. I WANT TO GET OUT,  _NOW_.”  
            Greg’s Guardian was a snarling, spiral of power by his shoulder, shoving forcefully at Mycroft with its limited reach. Mycroft flinched, his back hitting the upholstered seat with a thump as the car slammed to a stop. Greg lunged for the door, but missed the handle as it was ripped open; and he was dragged out by his collar and deposited on the ground. He scrambled back and glared at the woman.  
            Mycroft’s assistant, Violet or something, she’d manhandled him out of the car and was now firmly between them. He stood as his Guardian snarled again and lashed at her, still thrumming with adrenaline. She barely shifted and her eyes flickered, darkened. His Guardian shrieked once and was silenced, and Greg crumpled to the ground, head spinning.  
            He heard the murmur of voices as hands helped him up, Mycroft looking rueful and his assistant out of sight. “Are you all right?” he asked.  
            Greg nodded, not trusting his voice. For her to have stunned his Guardian... she.... she was a...  “She’s...” he croaked, stunned, eyes darting from Mycroft to his assistant and back.  
            “Overzealous about my protection and nothing more,” Mycroft said firmly, shepherding him towards the door of the building they were outside of. Greg wasn’t at all surprised to see it was his own. “This will have no impact on our working relationship, I trust. Do say hello to my brother for me and be... discreet about tonight’s activities.”  
            He drove away, and Greg stood numbly by the side of the street, silently reassessing everything he knew about the Holmeses.

 

* * *

 

            Years later, this conversation played in his mind as Greg sprinted in the direction his officers had seen Sherlock take after leaving the scene of Jennifer Wilson’s murder. He wasn’t about to let the younger man go charging into danger alone again, or more likely, give him the opportunity to withhold evidence.

            He pulled himself over a low brick fence, dropping into an alley between two rows of silent houses. The ground was packed mud that squished slightly underfoot, scattered with the forgotten remains of a generation of children’s toys and rubbish. Greg glanced about, cursing under his breath, realizing he must have taken a wrong turn.

            A soft thump to his left had him spinning about to face it, startled. A child crouched by the fence, a boy, barefoot and clad in flannel pajamas with dinosaurs scattered about a blue background. His short hair was still mussed from sleep, but his eyes were wide, catching the gleam of a nearby streetlight. The light reflected was an eerie shade, cat-like green, and Lestrade frowned at the oddity.

            “Oi, what are you doing here then?” he asked, voice gruff. “It’s alright, lad, I’m a police officer.” The boy didn’t move, just kept watching him with an unblinking gaze. Greg scanned him, concerned with the stiff way the boy was holding his shoulders. “Are you hurt? Where’s your parents?”

            The boy shuffled his feet in the mud, blinked slowly and spoke, his voice a low hum. “The time is near to choose a side, friend.”

            Greg shifted towards him, worry spiking. “Come on kid, let’s get you home, hey?”

            A flicker in the boys face, conflicted emotions. This time when he spoke, it was with a sulky child’s voice. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

            Lestrade forced a smile, trying to seem friendly, approachable. “Who were you talking to then?” He felt his Guardian suddenly pulse unpleasantly against him, as though it had received a shock.

            The child raised his head suddenly, straightening his back and shoulders. “No harm comes to my charge,” he hissed. Greg couldn’t help the step back he took, as he realized that the light in the kid’s eyes wasn’t from the streetlight – it was a glow from within. Another step, and his back thumped against the fence. The ground felt unsteady, as though the world had faded slightly around him, making it difficult to know where to place his feet. The child was still speaking, a low mutter that nethertheless was impossible to ignore, for all that it seemed to be made up of nonsense phrases that repeated themselves endlessly in his mind.

            He slid down the fence, hands catching on the rough wood as they bear his weight. Caution was replaced with terror as something shifted in him and suddenly ( _call upon you now, friend_ ) he was on the ground ( _he who walks with the one who sees_ )

            and drifting ( _the one who is the beginning)_  away

            his Guardian snarls ( _and the end)_  and he feels the world clear slightly, enough that he almost ( _and the one who’s love is the undoing of us all, who does as we do)_

 _(the one you protect is the catalyst)_ his name, in the distance, shouted from another time

            ( _I’m sorry for what you must do.)_

            a name (Iūdex.)

a promise.


	5. He Can No Longer Hear Them Sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I.... I have no excuses for how late this is.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to the amazing Sylvia, whom I love dearly. This chapter exists because she believed in me.

The moment a little boy is concerned with which a jay is and which a sparrow is, he can no longer see the birds or hear them sing.  ~ _Eric Berne_

**Bluejay** (Cyanocitta cristata): _Symbolic of adaptability. Connotes fearlessness, truthfulness_

* * *

 

“Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down. “

Mycroft smiled benignly at the stocky man standing solidly (without the canes assistance) in front of him. He had, in the short moment between Watson stepping out of the car and walking towards him, observed just as much about the ex-soldier as Sherlock had in the lab at Barts.

Of course, unlike Sherlock, Mycroft had no need for party tricks to learn what he needed to know. He had John Watson’s entire life sitting before him the moment that the two had stepped into Baker Street together. Invalidated home from Afghanistan, a (once) powerful Empath with healing and (slight) Sight skills. Trust issues (incorrect).

John Watson would not sit down before a (perceived) threat.

“I don’t want to sit down.” Watson’s eyes flickered slightly away from his, and his tongue flickered out, wetting his lips (nervous?). Mycroft stayed still, waiting silently, as Watson’s eyes flicked back to his and stared undaunted (not nerves, anticipation) back.

“You don’t seem very afraid,” Mycroft said softly, not breaking the eye contact. What an oddity this man was. A man who could possibly be the making of his brother. Or the destruction of him.

Watson didn’t smile, but Mycroft saw the slight relaxation of the smaller man’s shoulder (left hand steady, lacks the intermittent tremor) as he responded. “You don’t seem very frightening.” Mycroft laughed, eyes still cold.

Oh yes. This was a man who could most certainly keep up with his younger brother. He recalled a similar conversation, many years ago, with a recently promoted Detective Sergeant. He continued a sharp banter with Sherlock’s new pet (archenemy – Sherlock would approve), conscious at all times of the keen blue eyes staring him down. Of course, Sherlock would be expecting Mycroft to disapprove of the man, Watson. He would be expecting him to receive a sudden strike of fortune that called him away from London, and away from Sherlock.

Failing that, he would expect a spy. He ignored the buzzing of Watson’s phone, knowing already it was Sherlock. His brother could never bear to let his toys out of his sight, and he despised sharing. “Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?”

Watson looked up from the phone sharply, eyes narrowing. He didn’t reply, just continued staring at him. Waiting for the point of the question, no doubt. This was not a stupid man.

If he was trying to read his emotions, he would be sorely disappointed. Mycroft had always lacked Sherlock’s exuberance, and he knew that there would be very little for the empath to read. “If you do move into…. Two-hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street, I’d be happy to pay you a reasonable sum of money on a regular basis to… ease your way.”

John still didn’t move, silently assessing the other man. His therapist was wrong about him having trust issues. If anything, this was a man who became very loyal very quickly. “No.”

“No? I haven’t even specified why yet.”

“I won’t spy on Sherlock for you. I don’t know who you are, but I want nothing to do with you. Why would you possibly expect me to spy on him?” He was angry, bristling.

“I worry about him. Constantly.” Mycroft saw the confusion those words brought, the slight hesitation in the other man’s face.

“That’s nice of you,” John growled. “Are we done?”

Mycroft frowned slightly, and slid his hand into his jacket to receive his book. The book itself was blank, of course, but it was so intimidating when he started listing off facts out of it that he should, by all rights, have no access to. He felt the slight buzz of his mobile in his pocket, distracting.

Urgent. Anthea would not have contacted him unless he was needed. Time enough to interrogate John Watson at a later date, if it was so needed.

“Indeed.” He pauses for dramatic effect, and makes a quick decision. Sooner or later, Sherlock was going to get himself involved in affairs, whether invited or not. Perhaps sooner would be better. “Tell Sherlock Holmes that war is coming to London, Mr. Watson. You will both be walking a battlefield together, and it will be bloodier and darker than even your nightmares. Ensure that you pick the correct side.” John’s eyes widen, he seems shaken for the first time that night.

“Wait!” he calls after Mycroft, but the taller man is already walking away, hiding his haste in a jaunty swing of his umbrella. Anthea will take the man home, to Baker Street he has no doubt.

He was needed elsewhere, by one who rarely called upon his services.

* * *

 

Greg Lestrade’s job had left its mark on the venerable detective. His hair was more salt than pepper these days, and the lines on his face deepened every year. More than anything, it was his eyes that had aged, eyes that had spent years seeing the worst that London had to offer.

Mycroft had never seen the Detective looking this worn.

He was slumped against his car, eyes dull and face taut with stress and exhaustion. His hands shook around the paper cup of coffee someone had shoved into them, and a rough blanket had been procured from somewhere and wrapped around his shoulders. Mycroft noted the splatters of grime up the detective’s otherwise clean trousers, damp patches along one side where he’d clearly been laying prone on a damp floor. Unconscious? He seemed unharmed, physically at least.

Anthea walked close behind him, tapping at her phone as she walked, seemingly ignorant of their surroundings. They were at a crime scene in Brixton, dull. Sherlock’s joy was the puzzles that crimes presented, Mycroft found the whole affair tedious. However, he was hyperaware of the buzz and crackle of police radios around him, and the CCTV that had its eyes pinned on the area.

Benefits of having a Guardian with the ability to communicate with technology. Mycroft’s ears and eyes really were everywhere.

“Greg,” he called sharply, as they approached. It wouldn’t do to startle the man, he already looked as though he’d had all the shocks he could handle tonight. The man in question slowly raised his head and looked blearily back at Mycroft.

“I should have known you’d show up,” he said drily, voice husky. Mycroft noted the mud in his hair. Definitely a period of time spent unconscious. “How did you even know?”

“Know that an officer of the law had been attacked and left lying in the street while on duty?” Mycroft replied, still studying him. Normally such an event would fly well under his radar but with extenuating circumstances such as these, times had changed. Besides, it wouldn’t do to lose one of the few people who could hold his brother’s attention. “I hardly think you even need to ask that question.”

Lestrade nodded slowly, shaking himself awake. “You know what did it then, do you? Because I’d love to know. Care to share?”

Anthea’s tapping paused momentarily. “May I see your warrant card, Detective?” she asked softly, knowing exactly what it was she was asking of him. Lestrade froze, back stiffening in shock as he stared at her. Mycroft felt a shudder involuntarily work its way down his spine. Humans didn’t make contact with items that Guardians used as perches as a general rule. It was considered a violation of the greatest degree, and a mark of great trust when allowed.

He opened his mouth to remark that it was unnecessary, but to his surprise Lestrade was reaching into his breast coat pocket. Masking his unease, he watched silently as the greying detective pulled it out slowly, and stood. “Something gave him a shock,” Lestrade murmured, eyes not leaving the scuffed item in his hand. “He’s not been right since I woke up. Feels a lot like it did when you…” he paused, and looked at Anthea, mouth quirking slightly. “When we disagreed last.”

Anthea nodded and took the card gently, running her hands along it gently. Mycroft couldn’t help but shiver slightly, uncomfortable with the sensation of muted power thrumming from the object into her hands. Greg’s Guardian felt slow, damaged somehow. As though he had fought with another angel and lost.

Rare for that to happen, unless a human was threatened. “Do you remember anything?” he asked.

Greg was still, watching Anthea with an inscrutable expression. “Only a little. There was a boy, my Guardian panicked and then, a voice…” he trailed off. “I heard a voice, from somewhere far away, babbling nonsense.”

Mycroft showed no reaction, merely shifted his weight from one foot to the other, leaning slightly on his umbrella. He let no sign of the unease he felt at the detectives words show on his face or in his body language. “Do you remember what the voice said?”

Lestrade half nodded. “Something about being called upon to walk with someone, and a catalyst? I’ll be buggered if I know what any of it means.”

A soft voice interrupted them, Anthea. “I call upon you now friend, he who walks with the one who sees and the one who is the beginning and the end, and the one whose love is the undoing of us all who do as we do. The one you protect is the catalyst, I’m sorry for what you must do.” She stopped and looked up at the two stunned men. “And a name. Your name, Greg.”

Greg whispered it the same time Anthea did. “Iūdex.”

Mycroft felt a thrill rush through him, mirrored in Anthea’s wide eyed expression. Iūdex. _Judge_.

“What does that mean? What the hell does any of this mean? What’s going on Mycroft?” Greg’s voice was sharp, alarmed, out of his depth.

 “It means,” the oldest Holmes said, carefully. “That things are changing.” A wordless nudge from him and Anthea passed the warrant card back to its owner. The Guardian attached throbbed vividly with new life, awake and well again. Anthea did her work efficiently. Greg took it thankfully, eyes not leaving Mycroft’s face. “I have to look into this further. I will inform you further once we know more.” He turned and walked swiftly away from the befuddled cop. Before they left earshot, he paused and turned back just once.

Lestrade was turning his warrant card over in his hands, frowning. “Greg. Go to my brother’s house and search it. He has a case there belonging to your victim. A drug bust would permit you entry, provided you find nothing. Please avoid upsetting Mrs. Hudson while you retrieve it. Good night.”

That would be enough to keep him from stewing over the events of the night. Greg wasn’t one to enjoy pursuits of the mind, especially when Angels and theology became involved.

Mycroft was sorry that Greg had gotten involved at all. He had been hoping to keep the detective out of it, even as he knew he’d never keep his brother away. Greg was now, as they all were, caught inevitably in the events that would tear their world apart.

And it was all Mycroft’s fault.


End file.
